


As the Night Grows Deep

by KaraMergen



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 09:51:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaraMergen/pseuds/KaraMergen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even in the new world governed by Homura, Kyubey is driven by his purpose. Post-movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As the Night Grows Deep

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is... weird but I felt the need to write this ficlet and... ended up doing so. Yeah. Oh, and if Kyubey's thinking process sounds a bit too metaphorical to you (unlike his usual super-rational self), it's probably because the whole world is supposed to be kinda... wrong here, and even he is affected to some extent. Maybe. Also, this is tagged as Homura/Madoka because Homura is obviously in love with her, but really, it's a very Kyubey-centric... thing. ~~I hope you can tell that he's my favorite.~~

A small battered body curls wearily in the grass.

His glazed eyes meet the impassive stare of a grasshopper, and his ears register the distant movements of a crawling centipede. A swarm of ants marches by, indifferent to his discomfort; as they finally disappear, leaving a lingering trace of pheromones that only his nose is able to discern, he finally allows himself to shut down for what seems like a nanosecond and discard this broken vessel. A cool wave envelops him like a river, pushing him with soft urgency; he reassembles himself and absorbs the smells and the sounds of the meadow with renewed acuity. Feeling neither grief nor malice, he begins to devour the remains of his previous copy, and the limp chunks of odorless flesh disintegrate speedily inside him.

"As disgusting as ever, I see."

Akemi Homura's gaze is disdainful but also uncharacteristically serene. He can hear the flapping of a night heron's wings over a reedy pond miles away from here, but Akemi Homura still doesn't make a lot of sense to him. It isn't that he doesn't know how to read her expression: there are billions and billions of human faces stored in the well of his memory, enough to classify most of their emotions. It is the powerful vehemence with which she rejects reason that he doesn't really know how to explain, no matter how many calculations and scans of her body's impulses he attempts to perform.

"You seem tired, Incubator," Akemi Homura says. She doesn't look too good herself: there are dark circles under her eyes, and the color of her skin is almost ashy. Something like a faint spark, a glitch in the fabric of the air causes the tip of his tail to twitch, and he glances at the dark sky peppered with stars. It seems like this universe is becoming more and more brittle in a completely non-metaphorical sense; he recalls something like a scene from a puppet play that he watched in a different life, in the company of a magical girl whose name no longer matters. The play was crude and simplistic, with background scenery made of cardboard and rags. This world's sky, too, looks vaguely like a piece of old blue velvet with a tinfoil moon sewn onto it, about to fall apart. He isn't sure what makes him think like this; it might be the lack of energy, or the fact that he still doesn't know the real extent to which his - _their_ nest in their homeworld has been affected by Akemi Homura's so-called rebellion. It might be both.

"She needs time, I suppose," Akemi Homura sighs with a wry smile. "I don't mind. As long as she is alright." Her long fingers clench his neck in a gesture that is almost casual, but he suppresses the warning signals of his new body and concentrates on the energy flowing from her, soaking into the soil, the gathering mist and the grass. Perhaps she also sensed that disturbance; perhaps she still has the strength to quell it for the time being. For a moment, everything becomes unfocused, and then the picture shifts a little, and the grasshopper, seemingly unaffected, hops into the quietly murmuring darkness.

"She looks so confused, you know," Akemi Homura continues, flashing one of her weirder smiles. "That one time I went slightly overboard and she nearly turned into _her_ again, but I made _her_ go to sleep. I wonder..." she adds dreamily and never finishes the phrase. "Hey, Incubator, it's not like you're not allowed to talk."

He hears her words but doesn't respond, immersed in a somewhat hasty examination of her state. Her human husk is emaciated, but somewhere inside it, a clot of thick blackness is pulsating vigorously, giving power and shape to Akemi Homura's wish; this, he thinks, is probably what she called _love_ at that time, in that other life. 

"Either way, she is at peace, I think," Akemi Homura mutters slowly, snaps his neck like a dry twig and tosses him away thoughtlessly. "Yes, as long as I don't lose focus... She looked scared at that time, but now she barely remembers it. And she still hasn't thrown the ribbon away. Not wearing it yet, but maybe later."

He forcefully transfers himself into another vessel; a drop of cold dew falls onto his white fur. His body grows tense and warm, sending a command to his other selves scattered in the broad fields and the snowy plains, the woods and the rocky wastelands. Akemi Homura will probably interrupt them again in several minutes when she snaps out of her feverish trance, but until then, they can continue to analyze the stage props of this decrepit puppet theater of the absurd, and maybe someday they will discover the hole in Akemi Homura's design, a tear in the shabby velvet through which the old, correct universe may be brought back.

Far away, a star glistens and flickers out. An owl dives softly into the night air. The meadow grows still, waiting.


End file.
